Tourist Trade

by Robert Silverberg

After a moment Eitel’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and the glare of the clashing crisscrossing spotlights. But he didn’t need his eyes to tell him what sort of bizarre zoo he had walked into. His sensitive nostrils picked up the whole astonishing olfactory blast at once: a weird hodgepodge of extraterrestrial body odors, offworld pheromones, transgalactic cosmetics, the ozone radiation of personal protection screens, minute quantities of unearthly atmospheres leaking out of breathing devices.

“Something wrong?” David asked.

“The odors. They overwhelm me.”

“The smoking, eh? You hate it that much?”

“Not the tobacco, fool. The aliens! The E-Ts!”

“Ah. The smell of money, you mean. I agree, it is very overwhelming in here.”

“For a shrewd man you can sometimes be very stupid,” Eitel muttered. “Unless you say such things deliberately, which you must, because I have never known a stupid Moroccan.”

“For a Moroccan, I am very stupid,” said David serenely. “And so it was very stupid of you to choose me as your partner, eh? Your grandfathers in Zurich would be shamed if they knew. Eh?” He gave Eitel a maddeningly seraphic smile.

Eitel scowled. He was never sure when he had genuinely offended the slippery little Moroccan and when David was merely teasing. But somehow David always came out of these interchanges a couple of points ahead.

He turned and looked the place over, checking it out.

Plenty of humans, of course. This was the biggest gathering-place for aliens in Morocco, the locus of the focus, and a lot of gawkers came to observe the action. Eitel ignored them. There was no sense doing business with humans any more. There were probably some Interpol types in here too, hoping to head off just the sort of deals Eitel was here to do. To hell with them. His hands were clean, more or less.

But the aliens! The aliens, the aliens, the aliens!

All over the room. Vast saucer eyes, spidery limbs, skins of grotesque textures and unnameable colors. Eitel felt the excitement rising in him, so un-Swiss of him, so thoroughly out of character.

“Look at them!” he whispered. “They’re beautiful!”

“Beautiful? You think so?”

“Fantastic!”

The Moroccan shrugged. “Fantastic, yes. Beautiful, no. Blue skin, green skin, no skin, two heads, five heads: this is beauty? What is beautiful to me is the money. And the way they like to throw it away.”

“You would never understand,” said Eitel.

In fact Eitel hardly understood it himself. He had discovered, not long after the first alien tourists had reached Earth, that they stirred unexpected areas of his soul: strange vistas opening, odd incoherent cosmic yearnings. To find at the age of forty that there was more to him than Panamanian trusts and numbered bank accounts—that was a little troublesome; but it was delicious, as well. He stood staring for a long ecstatic chaotic moment. Then he turned to David and said, “Where’s your Centauran?”

“I don’t see him.”

“Neither do I.”

“He swore he’d be here. Is a big place, Eitel. We go looking, and we find.”

The air was thick with color, sound, fumes. Eitel moved carefully around a tableful of leathery-faced pockmarked red Rigelians, burly, noisy, like a herd of American conventioneers out on the town. Behind them sat five sleek and sinuous Steropids, wearing cone-shaped breathers. Good. Steropids were easy marks. If something went wrong with this Centauran deal David had set up, he might want to have them as customers to fall back on.

Likewise that Arcturan trio, flat heads, grizzled green hair, triple eyes bright as blue-white suns. Arcturans were wild spenders, though they weren’t known to covet Eitel’s usual merchandise, which was works of fine art, or more or less fine art. Perhaps they could be encouraged to. Eitel, going past, offered them a preliminary smile: Earthman establishing friendly contact, leading perhaps to more elaborate relationship. But the Arcturans didn’t pick up on it. They looked through Eitel as though their eyes didn’t function in the part of the spectrum he happened to inhabit.

“There,” David said.

Yes. Far across the way, a turquoise creature, inordinately long and narrow, that appeared to be constructed of the finest grade of rubber, stretched over an awkwardly flung together armature of short rods.

“There’s a woman with him,” Eitel said. “I wasn’t expecting that. You didn’t tell me.”

David’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, nice, very nice!”

She was more than very nice. She was splendid. But that wasn’t the point. Her presence here could be a troublesome complication. A tour guide? An interpreter? Had the Centauran brought his own art expert along? Or was she some Interpol agent decked out to look like the highest-priced of hookers? Or maybe even a real hooker. God help me, he thought, if the Centauran’s gotten involved in some kind of kinky infatuation that would distract him from the deal. No: God help David.

“You should have told me there was a woman,” Eitel said.

“But I didn’t know! I swear, Jesus Mary Moses, I never see her yesterday! But it will be all right. Jesus Mary Moses, go ahead, walk over.” He smiled and winked and slipped off towards the bar. “I see you later, outside. You go for it, you hear? You hear me, Eitel? It will be all right.”

The Centauran, seeing the red carnation in Eitel’s lapel, lifted his arm in a gesture like the extending of a telescopic tube, and the woman smiled. It was an amazing smile, and it caught Eitel a little off guard, because for an instant it made him wish that the Centauran was back on Centaurus and this woman was sitting here alone. He shook the thought off. He was here to do a deal, not to get into entanglements.

“Hans Eitel, of Zurich,” he said.

“I am Anakhistos,” said the Centauran. His voice was like something out of a synthesizer, which perhaps it was, and his face was utterly opaque, a flat motionless mask. For vision he had a single bright strip of receptors an inch wide around his forehead, for air intake he had little vents on his cheeks, and for eating he had a three-sided oral slot like the swinging top of a trash basket. “We are very happied you have come,” he said. “This is Agila.”

Eitel allowed himself to look straight at her. It was dazzling but painful, a little like staring into the sun. Her hair was red and thick, her eyes were emerald and very far apart, her lips were full, her teeth were bright. She was wearing a vaguely futuristic metal-mesh sheath, green, supple, clinging. What she looked like was something that belonged on a 3-D billboard, one of those unreal idealized women who turn up in the ads for cognac, or skiing holidays in Gstaad. There was something a little freakish about such excessive beauty. A professional, he decided.

To the Centauran he said, “This is a great pleasure for me. To meet a collector of your stature, to know that I will be able to be of assistance—”

“And a pleasure also for ourself. You are greatly recommended to me. You are called knowledgeable reliable, discreet—”

“The traditions of our family. I was bred to my métier.”

“We are drinking mint tea,” the woman said. “Will you drink mint tea with us?” Her voice was warm, deep, unfamiliar. Swedish? Did they have redheads in Sweden?

Eitel said, “Forgive me, but it’s much too sweet for me. Perhaps a brandy instead—”

A waiter appeared as though by telepathic command. Eitel ordered a Courvoisier, and the woman another round of tea. She is very smooth, very good, he thought. He imagined himself in bed with her, digging his fingers into that dense red mane, running his lips over her long lean thighs. The fantasy was pleasing but undisturbing: an idle dream, cool, agreeable, giving him no palpitations, no frenzy. Good. After that first startled moment he was getting himself under control. He wondered if she was charging the Centauran by the night, or working at something bigger.

She said, “I love the Moroccan tea. It is so marvelous, the sweet. Sugar is my passion. I think I am addicted.”

The waiter poured the tea in the traditional way, cascading it down into the glass from three feet up. Eitel repressed a shudder. He ad-mired the elaborate Moroccan cuisine, but the tea appalled him: lethal hypersaccharine stuff, instant diabetes.

“Do you also enjoy mint tea?” Eitel asked the alien.

“It is very wonderful,” the Centauran said. “It is one of the most wonderful things on this wonderful planet.”

Eitel had no idea how sincere the Centauran was. He had been studying the psychology of extraterrestrials about as closely as anyone had, in the decade since they had begun to descend on Earth en masse after the lifting of the galactic quarantine, and he knew a lot about a lot of them; but he found it almost impossible to get a reading on Centaurans. If they gave any clues to their feelings at all, it was in the form of minute, perhaps imaginary fluctuations of the texture of their rubbery skins. It was Eitel’s theory that the skin slackened when they were happy and went taut when they were tense, but the theory was only preliminary and he gave it little value.

“When did you arrive on Earth?” Eitel asked.

“It is the first week,” the Centauran said. “Five days here in Fez, then we go to Rome, Paris, and afterwards the States United. Following which, other places. It is greatly exciting, your world. Such vigor, such raw force. I hope to see everything, and bring back much art. I am passionate collector, you know, of Earthesque objects.”

“With a special interest in paintings.”

“Paintings, yes, but I collect many other things.”

That seemed a little blatant. Unless Eitel misunderstood the meaning, but he doubted he had. He glanced at the woman, but she showed no reaction.

Carefully he said, “Such as?”

“Everything that is essential to the experience of your world! Everything fine, everything deeply Earthesque! Of course I am most fastidious. I seek only the first-rate objects.”

“I couldn’t possibly agree more,” said Eitel. “We share the same philosophy. The true connoisseur has no time for the tawdry, the trivial, the incompletely realized gesture, the insufficiently fulfilled impulse.” His tone, carefully practised over years of dealing with clients, was intended to skirt unctuousness and communicate nothing but warm and sincere approbation. Such nuances were probably lost on the Centauran, but Eitel never let himself underestimate a client. He looked suddenly towards the woman and said, “Surely that’s your outlook also.”

“Of course.”

She took a long pull of her mint tea, letting the syrupy stuff slide down her throat like motor oil. Then she wriggled her shoulders in a curious way. Eitel saw flesh shifting interestingly beneath the metal mesh. Surely she was professional. Surely. He found himself speculating on whether there could be anything sexual going on between these two. He doubted that it was possible, but you never could tell. More likely, though, she was merely one of the stellar pieces in Anakhistos’s collection of the high-quality Earthesque: an object, an artifact. Eitel wondered how Anakhistos had managed to find her so fast. Was there some service that supplied visiting aliens with the finest of escorts, at the finest of prices?

He was picking up an aroma from her now, not unpleasant but very strange: caviar and cumin? Sturgeon poached in Chartreuse?

She signaled to the waiter for yet another tea. To Eitel she said, “The problem of the export certificates, do you think it is going to get worse?”

That was unexpected, and very admirable, he thought. Discover what your client’s concerns are, make them your own. He said, “It is a great difficulty, is it not?”

“I think of little else,” said the Centauran, leaping in as if he had been waiting for Agila to provide the cue. “To me it is an abomination. These restrictions on removing works of art from your planet—these humiliating inspections—this agitation, this outcry for even tighter limitations—what will it come to?”

Soothingly Eitel said, “You must try to understand the nature of the panic. We are a small backward world that has lived in isolation until just a few years ago. Suddenly we have stumbled into contact with the great galactic civilizations. You come among us, you are fascinated by us and by our artifacts, you wish to collect our things. But we can hardly supply the entire civilized universe. There are only a few Leonardos, a few Vermeers: and there are so many of you. So there is fear that you will sweep upon us with your immense wealth, with your vast numbers, with your hunger for our art, and buy everything of value that we have ever produced, and carry it off to places a hundred light-years away. So these laws are being passed. It is natural.”

“But I am not here to plunder! I am here to make legitimate purchase!”

“I understand completely,” Eitel said. He risked putting his hand, gently, compassionately, on the Centauran’s arm. Some of the E-Ts resented any sort of intimate contact of this sort with Earthfolk. But apparently the Centauran didn’t mind. The alien’s rubbery skin felt astonishingly soft and smooth, like the finest condom imaginable. “I’m altogether on your side,” Eitel declared. “The export laws are absurd overreactions. There’s a more than ample supply of art on this planet to meet the needs of sophisticated collectors like yourself. And by disseminating our culture among the star-worlds, we bind ourselves inextricably into the fabric of galactic civilization. Which is why I do everything in my power to make our finest art available to our visitors.”

“But can you provide valid export licences?” Agila asked.

Eitel put his finger to his lips. “We don’t need to discuss it further just now, eh? Let us enjoy the delights of this evening, and save dreary matters of commerce for later, shall we?” He beamed. “May I offer you more tea?”

It was all going very smoothly, Eitel thought. Contact made, essential lines of agreement established. Even the woman was far less of a complication than he had anticipated. Time now to back off, relax, let rapport blossom and mature without forcing.

“Do you dance?” Agila said suddenly.

He looked towards the dance floor. The Rigelians were lurching around in a preposterously ponderous way, like dancing bears. Some Arcturans were on the dance floor too, and a few Procyonites bouncing up and down like bundles of shiny metal rods, and a Steropid doing an eerie pas seul, weaving in dreamy circles.

“Yes, of course,” he said, a little startled.

“Please dance with me?”

He glanced uneasily towards the Centauran, who nodded benignly. She smiled and said, “Anakhistos does not dance. But I would like to. Would you oblige me?”

Eitel took her hand and led her out on the floor. Once they were dancing he was able to regain his calm. He moved easily and well. Some of the E-Ts were openly watching them—they had such curiosity about humans sometimes—but the staring didn’t bother him. He found himself registering the pressure of her thighs against his thighs, her firm heavy breasts against his chest, and for an instant he felt the old biochemical imperative trying to go roaring through his veins, telling him, follow her anywhere, promise anything, say anything, do anything. He brushed it back. There were other women: in Nice, in Rome, in Athens. When he was done with this deal he would go to one of them.

He said, “Agila is an interesting name. Israeli, is it?”

“No,” she said.

The way she said it, serenely and very finally, left him without room to maneuver. He was full of questions—who was she, how had she hooked up with the Centauran, what was her deal, how well did she think Eitel’s own deal with the Centauran was likely to go? But that one cool syllable seemed to have slammed a curtain down. He concentrated on dancing again instead. She was supple, responsive, skilful. And yet the way she danced was as strange as everything else about her: she moved almost as if her feet were some inches off the floor. Odd. And her voice—an accent, but what kind? He had been everywhere, and nothing in his experience matched her way of speaking, a certain liquidity in the vowels, a certain resonance in the phrasing, as though she were hearing echoes as she spoke. She had to be something truly exotic, Rumanian, a Finn, a Bulgar—and even those did not seem exotic enough. Albanian? Lithuanian?

Most perplexing of all was her aroma. Eitel was gifted with a sense of smell worthy of a parfumier, and he heeded a woman’s fragrance the way more ordinary men studied the curves of hip or bosom or thigh. Out of the pores and the axillae and the orifices came the truths of the body, he believed, the deepest, the most trustworthy, the most exciting communications; he studied them with rabbinical fervour and the most minute scientific zeal. But he had never smelled anything like this, a juxtaposition of incongruous spices, a totally baffling mix of flavors. Some amazing new perfume? Something imported from Arcturus or Capella, perhaps? Maybe so, though it was hard to imagine an effect like this being achieved by mere chemicals. It had to be her. But what mysterious glandular outpouring brought him that subtle hint of sea urchin mingled with honey? What hidden duct sent thyme and raisins coursing together through her bloodstream? Why did the crystalline line of light perspiration on her flawless upper lip carry those grace-notes of pomegranate, tarragon and ginger?

He looked for answers in her eyes: deep green pools, calm, cool, unearthly. They seemed as bewildering as the rest of her.

And then he understood. He realized now that the answer, impossible and implausible and terrifying, had been beckoning to him all evening, and that he could no longer go on rejecting it, impossible or not. And in the moment of accepting it he heard a sound within himself much like that of a wind beginning to rise, a hurricane being born on some far-off isle.

Eitel began to tremble. He had never felt himself so totally defenseless before.

He said, “It’s amazing, how human you seem to be.”

“Seem to be?”

“Outwardly identical in every way. I didn’t think it was possible for life-forms of such a degree of similarity to evolve on two different worlds.”

“It isn’t,” she said.

“You’re not from Earth, though.”

She was smiling. She seemed almost pleased, he thought, that he had seen through her masquerade.

“No.”

“What are you, then?”

“Centauran.”

Eitel closed his eyes a moment. The wind was a gale within him; he swayed and struggled to keep his balance. He was starting to feel as though he were conducting this conversation from a point somewhere behind his own right ear. “But Centaurans look like—”

“Like Anakhistos? Yes, of course we do, when we are at home. But I am not at home now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This is my traveling body,” she said.

“What?”

“It is not comfortable, visiting certain places in one’s own body. The air is sharp, the light hurts the eyes, eating is very troublesome.”

“So you simply put on a different body?”

“Some of us do. There are those like Anakhistos who are indifferent to the discomforts, or who actually regard them as part of the purpose of traveling. But I am of the sort that prefers to transfer into a traveling body when going to other worlds.”

“Ah,” Eitel said. “Yes.” He continued to move through the rhythms of the dance in a numb, dazed way. It’s all just a costume, he told himself. What she really looks like is a bunch of rigid struts, with a rubber sheet draped over them. Cheek-vents for breathing, three-sided slot for eating, receptor strip instead of eyes. “And these bodies?” he asked. “Where do you get them?”

“Why, they make them for us. Several companies do it. The human models are only just now becoming available. Very expensive, you understand.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“Tell me: when was it that you first saw through my disguise?”

“I felt right away that something was wrong. But it wasn’t until a moment ago that I figured it out.”

“No one else has guessed, I think. It is an extremely excellent Earth body, would you not say?”

“Extremely,” Eitel said.

“After each trip I always regret, at first, returning to my real body. This one seems quite genuine to me by now. You like it very much, yes?”

“Yes,” Eitel said helplessly.

He found David out in the cab line, lounging against his taxi with one arm around a Moroccan boy of about sixteen and the other exploring the breasts of a swarthy French-looking woman. It was hard to tell which one he had selected for the late hours of the night: both, maybe. David’s cheerfully polymorphous ways were a little hard for Eitel to take, sometimes. But Eitel knew it wasn’t necessary to approve of David in order to work with him. Whenever Eitel showed up in Fez with new merchandise, David was able to finger a customer for him within twenty-four hours; and at a five percent commission he was probably the wealthiest taxi driver in Morocco, after two years as Eitel’s point man among the E-Ts.

“Everything’s set,” Eitel said. “Take me over to get the stuff.”

David flashed his glittering gold-toothed grin. He patted the woman’s rump, lightly slapped the boy’s cheek, pushed them both on their way, and opened the door of his cab for Eitel. The merchandise was at Eitel’s hotel, the Palais Jamai, on the edge of the native quarter. But Eitel never did business at his own hotel: it was handy to have David to take him back and forth between the Jamai and the Hotel Merinides, out here beyond the city wall by the ancient royal tombs, where most of the aliens preferred to stay.

The night was mild, fragrant, palm trees rustling in the soft breeze, huge bunches of red geranium blossoms looking almost black in the moonlight. As they drove towards the old town, with its maze of winding medieval streets, its walls and gates straight out of The Arabian Nights, David said, “You mind I tell you something? One thing worries me.”

“Go ahead.”

“Inside, I watched you. Staring more at the woman than at the E-T. You got to concentrate on the deal, and forget the woman, Eitel.”

Eitel resented being told by a kid half his age how to conduct his operations. But he kept himself in check. To David, young and until recently poor, certain nuances were incomprehensible. Not that David lacked an interest in beauty. But beauty was just an abstraction; money was money. Eitel did not attempt to explain what time would surely teach.

He said, “You tell me, forget the woman?”

“Is a time for women, is a time for business. Separate times. You know that, Eitel. A Swiss, he is almost a Moroccan, when it comes to business.”

Eitel laughed. “Thanks.”

“I am being serious. You be careful. If she confuse you, it can cost you. Can cost me. I am in for percentage, remember. Even if you are Swiss, maybe you need to know: business and women must be kept separate things.”

“I know.”

“You remember it, yes?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Eitel said.

The cab pulled up outside the Jamai. Eitel, upstairs, withdrew four paintings and an Olmec jade statuette from the false compartment of his suitcase. The paintings were all unframed, small, genuine and unimportant. After a moment he selected the Madonna of the Palms, from the atelier of Lorenzo Bellini: plainly apprentice work, but enchanting, serene, pure, not bad, easily a $20,000 painting. He slipped it into a carrying case, put the others back, all but the statuette, which he fondled for a moment and put down on the dresser, in front of the mirror, as though setting up a little shrine. To beauty, he thought. He started to put it away and changed his mind. It looked so lovely there that he decided to take his chances. Taking your chances, he thought, is sometimes good for the health.

He went back to the cab.

“Is a good painting?” David asked.

“It’s pretty. Trivial, but pretty.”

“I don’t mean good that way. I mean, is it real?”

“Of course,” Eitel said, perhaps too sharply. “Do we have to have this discussion again, David? You know damned well I sell only genuine paintings. Overpriced a little, but always genuine.”

“One thing I never can understand. Why you not sell them fakes?”

Startled, Eitel said, “You think I’m crooked, David?”

“Sure I do.”

“You say it so lightheartedly. I don’t like your humor sometimes.”

“Humor? What humor? Is against law to sell valuable Earth works of art to aliens. You sell them. Makes you crook, right? Is no insult. Is only description.”

“I don’t believe this,” Eitel said. “What are you trying to start here?”

“I only want to know, why you sell them real stuff. Is against the law to sell real ones, is probably not against the law to sell them fakes. You see? For two years I wonder this. We make just as much money, we run less risk.”

“My family has dealt in art for over a hundred years, David. No Eitel has ever knowingly sold a fake. None ever will.” It was a touchy point with him. “Look,” he said, “maybe you like playing these games with me, but you could go too far. All right?”

“You forgive me, Eitel?”

“If you shut up.”

“You know better than that. Shutting up I am very bad at. Can I tell you one more thing, and then I shut up really?”

“Go ahead,” Eitel said, sighing.

“I tell you this: you a very confused man. You a crook who thinks he not a crook, you know what I mean? Which is bad thinking. But is all right. I like you. I respect you, even. I think you are excellent businessman. So you forgive rude remarks?”

“You give me a great pain,” Eitel said.

“I bet I do. You forget I said anything. Go make deal, many millions, tomorrow we have mint tea together and you give me my cut and everybody happy.”

“I don’t like mint tea.”

“Is all right. We have some anyway.”

Seeing Agila standing in the doorway of her hotel room, Eitel was startled again by the impact of her presence, the overwhelming physical power of her beauty. If she confuse you, it can cost you. What you see is all artificial, he told himself. It’s just a mask. Eitel looked from Agila to Anakhistos, who sat oddly folded, like a giant umbrella. That’s what she really is, Eitel thought. She’s Mrs. Anakhistos from Centaurus, and her skin is like rubber and her mouth is a hinged slot and this body that she happens to be wearing right now was made in a laboratory. And yet, and yet, and yet—the wind was roaring, he was tossing wildly about—

What the hell is happening to me?

“Show us what you have for us,” Anakhistos said.

Eitel slipped the little painting from its case. His hands were shaking ever so slightly. In the closeness of the room he picked up two strong fragrances, something dry and musty coming from Anakhistos, and the strange, irresistible mixtures of incongruous spices that Agila’s synthetic body emanated.

“The Madonna of the Palms, Lorenzo Bellini, Venice, 1597,” Eitel said. “Very fine work.”

“Bellini is extremely famous, I know.”

“The famous ones are Giovanni and Gentile. This is Giovanni’s grandson. He’s just as good, but not well-known. I couldn’t possibly get you paintings by Giovanni or Gentile. No one on Earth could.”

“This is quite fine,” said Anakhistos. “True Renaissance beauty. And very Earthesque. Of course it is genuine?”

Eitel said stiffly, “Only a fool would try to sell a fake to a connoisseur such as yourself. But it would be easy enough for us to arrange a spectroscopic analysis in Casablanca, if—”

“Ah, no, no, no, I meant no suspicioning of your reputation. You are impeccable. We unquestion the genuinity. But what is done about the export certificate?”

“Easy. I have a document that says this is a recent copy, done by a student in Paris. They are not yet applying chemical tests of age to the paintings, not yet. You will be able to take the painting from Earth, with such a certificate.”

“And the price?” said Anakhistos.

Eitel took a deep breath. It was meant to steady him, but it dizzied him instead, for it filled his lungs with Agila.

He said, “If the deal is straight cash, the price is four million dollars.”

“And otherwise?” Agila asked.

“I’d prefer to talk to you about that alone,” he said to her.

“Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of Anakhistos. We are absolute mates. We have complete trust.”

“I’d still prefer to speak more privately.”

She shrugged. “All right. The balcony.”

Outside, where the sweetness of night-blooming flowers filled the air, her fragrance was less overpowering. It made no difference. Looking straight at her only with difficulty, he said, “If I can spend the rest of this night making love to you, the price will be three million.”

“This is a joke?”

“In fact, no. Not at all.”

“It is worth a million dollars to have sexual contact with me?”

Eitel imagined how his father would have answered that question, his grandfather, his great-grandfather. Their accumulated wisdom pressed on him like a hump. To hell with them, he thought.

He said, listening in wonder to his own words, “Yes. It is.”

“You know that this body is not my real body.”

“I know.”

“I am an alien being.”

“Yes. I know.”

She studied him in silence a long while. Then she said, “Why did you make me come outside to ask me this?”

“On Earth, men sometimes become quite angry when strangers ask their wives to go to bed with them. I didn’t know how Anakhistos would react. I don’t have any real idea how Centaurans react to anything.”

“I am Centauran also,” she pointed out.

“You don’t seem as alien to me.”

She smiled quickly, on-off. “I see. Well, let us confer with Anakhistos.”

But the conference, it turned out, did not include Eitel. He stood by, feeling rash and foolish, while Agila and Anakhistos exchanged bursts of harsh rapid words in their own language, a buzzing, eerie tongue that was quite literally like nothing on Earth. He searched their faces for some understanding of the flow of conversation. Was Anakhistos shocked? Outraged? Amused? And she? Even wearing human guise, she was opaque to him too. Did she feel contempt for Eitel’s bumptious lusts? Indifference? See him as quaintly primitive, bestial, anthropoid? Or was she eagerly cajoling her husband into letting her have her little adventure? Eitel had an idea. He felt far out of his depth, a sensation as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. Dry throat, sweaty palms, brain in turmoil: but there was no turning back now.

At last Agila turned to him and said, “It is agreed. The painting is ours at three million. And I am yours until dawn.”

David was still waiting. He grinned a knowing grin when Eitel emerged from the Merinides with Agila on his arm, but said nothing. I have lost points with him, Eitel thought. He thinks I have allowed the nonsense of the flesh to interfere with a business decision, and now I have made myself frivolous in his eyes. It is more complicated than that, but David would never understand. Business and women must be kept separate things. To the taxi driver, Eitel knew Helen of Troy herself would be as nothing next to a million dollars: mere meat, mere heat. So be it, Eitel told himself. David would never understand. What David would understand, Eitel thought guiltily, was that in cutting the deal with Agila he had also cut fifty thousand dollars off David’s commission. But he did not intend to let David know anything about that.

When they were in Eitel’s room Agila said, “First, I would please like to have some mint tea, yes? It is my addiction, you know. My aphrodisiac.”

Sizzling impatience seared Eitel’s soul. God only knew how long it might take room service to fetch a pot of tea at this hour, and at a million dollars a night he preferred not to waste even a minute. But there was no way to refuse. He could not allow himself to seem like some panting schoolboy.

“Of course,” he said.

After he had phoned, he walked around behind her as she stood by the window peering into the mists of the night. He put his lips to the nape of her neck and cupped his hands over her breasts. This is very crazy, he thought. I am not touching her real body. This is only some synthetic mock-up, a statue of flesh, a mere androidal shell.

No matter. No matter. He was able to resist her beauty, that illusion, that figment. That beauty, astonishing and unreal, was what had drawn him at first, but it was the dark secret alien underneath that ruled him now. That was what he hoped to reach: the alien, the star-woman, the unfathomable being from the black interstellar deeps. He would touch what no man of Earth had ever touched before.

He inhaled her fragrance until he felt himself swaying. She was making an odd purring sound that he hoped was one of pleasure.

There was a knock at the door. “The tea is here,” she said.

The waiter, a boy in native costume, sleepy, openly envious of Eitel for having a woman like Agila in his room, took forever to set up the glasses and pour the tea, an infinitely slow process of raising the pot, aiming, letting the thick tea trickle down through the air. But at last he left. Agila drank greedily, and beckoned to Eitel to have some also. He smiled and shook his head.

She said, “But you must. I love it so—you must share it. It is a ritual of love between us, eh?”

He did not choose to make an issue of it. A glass of mint tea more or less must not get in the way, not now.

“To us,” she said, and touched her glass to his.

He managed to drink a little. It was like pure liquid sugar. She had a second glass, and then, maddeningly, a third. He pretended to sip at his. Then at last she touched her hand to a clasp on her shoulder and her metal-mesh sheath fell away.

They had done their research properly, in the body-making labs of Centaurus. She was flawless, sheer fantasy, with heavy breasts that defied gravity, slender waist, hips that would drive a Moroccan camel-driver berserk, buttocks like pale hemispheres. They had given her a navel, pubic hair, erectile nipples, dimples here and there, the hint of blue veins in her thighs. Unreal, yes, Eitel thought, but magnificent.

“It is my fifth traveling body,” she said. “I have been Arcturan, Steropid, Denebian, Mizarian—and each time it has been hard, hard, hard! After the transfer is done, there is a long training period, and it is always very difficult. But one learns. A moment finally comes when the body feels natural and true. I will miss this one very much.”

“So will I,” Eitel said.

Quickly he undressed. She came to him, touched her lips lightly to his, grazed his chest with her nipples.

“And now you must give me a gift,” she said.

“What?”

“It is the custom before making love. An exchange of gifts.” She took from between her breasts the pendant she was wearing, a bit of bright crystal carved in disturbing alien swirls. “This is for you. And for me—”

Oh, God in heaven, he thought. No!

Her hand closed over the Olmec jade figurine that was still sitting on the dresser.

“This,” she said.

It sickened him. That little statuette was eighty thousand on the international antiquities market, maybe a million or two to the right E-T buyer. A gift? A love-token? He saw the gleam in her eye, and knew he was trapped. Refuse, and everything else might be lost. He dare not show any trace of pettiness. Yes. So be it. Let her have the damned thing. We are being romantic tonight. We are making grand gestures. We are not going to behave like a petit-bourgeois Swiss art peddler. If she confuse you, it can cost you, David had said. Eitel took a deep breath.

“My pleasure,” he said magnificently.

He was an experienced and expert lover; supreme beauty always inspired the best in him; and pride alone made him want to send her back to Centaurus with incandescent memories of the erotic arts of Earth. His performance that night—and performance was the only word he could apply to it—might well have been the finest of his life.

With the lips and tongue, first. Everywhere. With the fingers, slowly, patiently, searching for the little secret key places, the unexpected triggering-points. With the breath against the skin, and the fingernails, ever so lightly, and the eyelashes, and even the newly sprouting stubble of the cheek. These were all things that Eitel loved doing, not merely for the effects they produced in his bed-partners but because they were delightful in and of themselves; yet he had never done them with greater dedication and skill.

And now, he thought, perhaps she will show me some of her skills.

But she lay there like a wax doll. Occasionally she stirred, occasionally she moved her hips a little. When he went into her, he found her warm and moist—why had they built that capacity in, Eitel wondered?—but he felt no response from her, none at all.

He moved her this way, that, running through the gamut of positions as though he and she were making a training film for newlyweds. Now and then she smiled. Her eyes were always open: she was fascinated. Eitel felt anger rising. She was ever the tourist, even here in his bed. Getting some first-hand knowledge of the quaint sexual techniques of the primitive Earthmen.

Knowing he was being foolish, that he was compounding a foolishness, he drove his body with frantic intensity, rocking rhythmically above her, grimly pushing her on and on. Come on, he thought. Give me a little sigh, a moan, a wriggle. Anything. He wasn’t asking her to come. There was no reason why they should have built that capacity in, was there? The only thing he wanted now was to get some sort of acknowledgement of his existence from her, some quiver of assent.

He went on working at it, knowing he would not get it. But then, to his surprise, something actually seemed to be happening. Her face grew flushed, and her eyes narrowed and took on a new gleam, and her breath began to come in harsh little bursts, and her breasts heaved, and her nipples grew hard. All the signs, yes: Eitel had seen them so many times, and never more welcome than at this moment. He knew what to do. The unslackening rhythm now, the steady building of tension, carrying her onwards, steadily higher, leading her towards that magical moment of overload when the watchful conscious mind at last surrenders to the surging deeper forces. Yes. Yes. The valiant Earthman giving his all for the sake of transgalactic passion, laboring like a galley slave to show the star-woman what the communion of the sexes is all about.

She seemed almost there. Some panting now, even a little gasping. Eitel smiled in pleasant self-congratulation. Swiss precision, he thought: never underestimate it.

And then somehow she managed to slip free of him, between one thrust and the next, and she rolled to the side, so that he collapsed in amazement into the pillow as she left the bed. He sat up and looked at her, stunned, gaping, numbed.

“Excuse me,” she said, in the most casual way. “I thought I’d have a little more tea. Shall I get some for you?”

Eitel could barely speak. “No,” he said hoarsely.

She poured herself a glass, drank, grimaced. “It doesn’t taste as good as when it’s warm,” she said, returning to the bed. “Well, shall we go on?” she asked.

Silently he reached for her. Somehow he was able to start again. But this time a distance of a thousand light-years seemed to separate him from her. There was no rekindling that brief flame, and after a few moments he gave up. He felt himself forever shut away from the inwardness of her, as Earth is shut away from the stars. Cold, weary, more furious with himself than with her, he let himself come. He kept his eyes open as long as he could, staring icily into hers, but the sensations were unexpectedly powerful, and in the end he sank down against her breasts, clinging to her as the impact thundered through him.

In that bleak moment came a surprise. For as he shook and quivered in the force of that dismal ejaculation something opened between them, a barrier, a gate, and the hotel melted and disappeared and he saw himself in the midst of a bizarre landscape. The sky was a rich golden-green, the sun was deep green and hot, the trees and plants and flowers were like nothing he had ever seen on Earth. The air was heavy, aromatic, and of a piercing flavor that stung his nostrils. Flying creatures that were not birds soared unhurriedly overhead, and some iridescent beasts that looked like red velvet pillows mounted on tripods were grazing on the lower branches of furry-limbed trees. On the horizon Eitel saw three jagged naked mountains of some yellow-brown stone that gleamed like polished metal in the sunlight. He trembled. Wonder and awe engulfed his spirit. This is a park, he realized, the most beautiful park in the world. But this is not this world. He found a little path that led over a gentle hill, and when he came to the far side he looked down to see Centaurans strolling two by two, hand in hand, through an elegantly contoured garden.

Oh, my God, Eitel thought. Oh, my God in heaven!

Then it all began to fade, growing thin, turning to something no more substantial than smoke, and in a moment more it was all gone. He lay still, breathing raggedly, by her side, watching her breasts slowly rising and falling.

He lifted his head. She was studying him. “You liked that?”

“Liked what?”

“What you saw.”

“So you know?”

She seemed surprised. “Of course! You thought it was an accident? It was my gift for you.”

“Ah.” The picture-postcard of the home world, bestowed on the earnest native for his diligent services. “It was extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

“It is very beautiful, yes,” she said complacently. Then, smiling, she said, “That was interesting, what you did there at the end, when you were breathing so hard. Can you do that again?” she asked, as though he had just executed some intricate juggling maneuver.

Bleakly he shook his head, and turned away. He could not bear to look into those magnificent eyes any longer. Somehow—he would never have any way of knowing when it had happened, except that it was somewhere between “Can you do that again?” and the dawn, he fell asleep. She was shaking him gently awake, then. The light of a brilliant morning came bursting through the fragile old silken draperies.

“I am leaving now,” she whispered. “But I wish to thank you. It has been a night I shall never forget.”

“Nor I,” said Eitel.

“To experience the reality of Earthian ways at such close range—with such intimacy, such immediacy—”

“Yes. Of course. It must have been extraordinary for you.”

“If ever you come to Centaurus—”

“Certainly. I’ll look you up.”

She kissed him lightly, tip of nose, forehead, lips. Then she walked towards the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned and said, “Oh, one little thing that might amuse you. I meant to tell you last night. We don’t have that kind of thing on our world, you know—that concept of owning one’s mate’s body. And in any case, Anakhistos is not male, and I am not female, not exactly. We mate, but our sex distinctions are not so well-defined as that. It is with us more like the way it is with your oysters, I think. So it is not quite right to say that Anakhistos is my husband, or that I am his wife. I thought you would like to know.”

She blew him a kiss. “It has been very lovely,” she said. “Goodbye.”

When she was gone he went to the window and stared into the garden for a long while without looking at anything in particular. He felt weary and burned out, and there was a taste of straw in his mouth. After a time he turned away.

When he emerged from the hotel later that morning, David’s car was waiting out front.

“Get in,” he said.

They drove in silence to a cafe that Eitel had never seen before, in the new quarter of town. David said something in Arabic to the proprietor and he brought mint tea for two.

“I don’t like mint tea,” Eitel said.

“Drink. It washes away bad tastes. How did it go last night?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

“You and the woman, ficky-ficky?”

“None of your ficky-ficky business.”

“Try some tea,” David urged. “It not so good last night, eh?”

“What makes you think so?”

“You not look so happy. You not sound so happy.”

“For once you’re wrong,” Eitel said. “I got everything I wanted to get. Do you understand me? I got everything I wanted to get.” His tone might have been a little too loud, a little too aggressive, for it drew a quizzical, searching look from the Moroccan.

“Yes. Sure. And what size deal? That is my business, yes?”

“Three million cash.”

“Only three?”

“Three,” Eitel said. “I owe you a hundred and fifty thousand. You’re doing all right, a hundred and fifty for a couple of hours’ work. I’m making you a rich man.”

“Yes. Very rich. But no more deals, Eitel.”

“What?”

“You find another boy, all right? I will work now with someone else, maybe. There are plenty of others, you know? I will be more comfortable with them. Is very bad, when one does not trust a partner.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“What you did last night, going off with the woman, was very stupid. Poor business, you know? I wonder, did you have to pay her? And did you pay her some of my money too?”

David was smiling, as always. But sometimes his smiles were amiable and sometimes they were just smiles. Eitel had a sudden vision of himself in a back alley of the old town, bleeding. He had another vision of himself undergoing interrogation by the customs men. David had a lot of power over him, he realized.

Eitel took a deep breath and said, “I resent the insinuation that I’ve cheated you. I’ve treated you very honorably from the start. You know that. And if you think I bought the woman, let me tell you this: she isn’t a woman at all. She’s an alien. Some of them wear human bodies when they travel. Underneath all that gorgeous flesh she’s a Centauran, David.”

“And you touched her?”

“Yes.”

“You put yourself inside her?”

“Yes,” Eitel said.

David stood up. He looked as though he had just found a rat embryo in his tea. “I am very glad we are no longer partners, then. Deliver the money to me in the usual way. And then please stay away from me when you are in this city.”

“Wait,” Eitel said. “Take me back to the Merinides. I’ve got three more paintings to sell.”

“There are plenty of taxi drivers in this city,” said David.

When he was gone, Eitel peered into his mint tea for a while and wondered if David meant to make trouble for him. Then he stopped thinking about David and thought about that glimpse of a green sun and a golden landscape that Agila had given him. His hands felt cold, his fingers were quivering a little. He became aware that he wanted more than anything else to see those things again. Could any Centauran make it happen for him, he wondered, or was that only Agila’s little trick? What about other aliens? He imagined himself prowling the nightclub, hustling for action, pressing himself up against this slithery thing or that one, desperately trying to re-enact that weird orgasmic moment that had carried him to the stars. A new perversion, he thought. One that even David found disgusting.

He wondered what it was like to go to bed with a Vegan or an Arcturan or a Steropid. God in heaven! Could he do it? Yes, he told himself, thinking of green suns and the unforgettable fragrance of that alien air. Yes. Yes. Of course he could. Of course.

There was a sudden strange sweetness in his mouth. He realized that he had taken a deep gulp of the mint tea without paying attention to what he was doing. Eitel smiled. It hadn’t made him sick, had it? Had it? He took another swig. Then, in a slow determined way, he finished off all the rest of it, and scattered some coins on the counter, and went outside to look for a cab.

Content

Tourist Trade
by Robert Silverberg